historical fiction
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Hooves pounded in the distance. She waited beside the round well. The bucket’s rope frayed, threads split and curling. Her komboskini hung at her waist, its dark wool looped in even knots along the cord. Each knot held a prayer.
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Her Converse scraped the dashboard, leaving a smear of chalky dust. She sat in the passenger seat, eyebrow pencil in hand. As the second oldest, that spot was hers by right. My mother drove, straight-backed, wearing a navy blue dress with a high neckline. At red lights she’d check the rear-view, stealing quick glances at…
